


Uncaring Profession

by Quiet_Shadow



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: In the aftermath of a battle, a captured Dead End doesn't care about anything, let alone his own injuries, and Ratchet is far from pleased or impressed with his latest patient.





	Uncaring Profession

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, I should check my old files more often. I came across this fic by surprise and I had totally forgotten I had even wrote it to begin with -- that and a couple others I'll also need to add on AO3, pending a few revisions :X
> 
> According to my notes, this one fic had been written for a contest on a LJ community... back in 2008. God, nine years; I was still a fandom newbie back then and I've come so far and changed my way to see characters so much ever since X_X
> 
> Warnings for, well, Dead End. The tags are all about him, after all.

So they were battling again.

For some humans’ power plant in the middle of nowhere, which wouldn’t fulfill their need for energy for more than a couple of days. Pointless. Simply and utterly pointless. But nobody was brave – or stupid – enough to say that to Megatron. Except Starscream, of course, but Starscream was a special case.

The Air Commander was... not exactly stupid, or exactly insane, but somewhere between the two. He winced and barely held in a scream of pain when a lucky shot hit him in the shoulder. Slag, Autobots could shot when they wanted to...  
The Stunticons hadn't merged into Menasor yet, as Megatron hadn't given the order; and every member of their Gestalt, even Motormaster, knew better than to merge without Megatron's approval unless it was an emergency. And it wasn’t one yet...

“Look out!” The warning came as a surprise – for which Decepticon would warn another like that? Thundercracker, perhaps, if he was feeling charitable, but he was usually only looking out for his trine mates, or just Skywarp if Starscream had done something stupid again – and far too late. He felt something impact with his body, and he couldn’t silence a scream of pain. The next thing he knew, he was falling onto the ground, and his optics displayed a ‘warning! Entering stasis lock!’ before everything went back.

*-*-*-*-*-*

The aftermath of the battle was quiet, except for the chatter of a pair of mech who were looking around, evaluating the damages and searching for injured humans who may had been caught in the crossfire. It hadn’t happened before, but one could never be too careful. The first one was praticaly bouncing.

“We got them good this time!”

The other snorted. “Don’t be so cheerful; we won the battle, but there’s still a war going on.”

“Can’t you just forget that for a second?” whined the first.

“Can’t and won’t. Now could we...?”

“Look!” yelped the first.

The second mech turned his head and started. Unless his optics were deceiving him, they had managed to find a fallen mech. And certainly not one of them at that. They had expected a lot of thing, but they certainly hadn’t expected one of their adversaries lying face down on the earth. They stared at him for a minute before approaching carefully; you never knew, it may have been a trap.  
Perhaps, somewhere around, there were still ‘Cons ready to jump on them. Or perhaps the still mech was trying to trick them into getting close enough to attack them. But the ennemy mech remained still as they approached him. Now that they had a clearer look, they were surprised. Of all the Decepticons they had expected it to be, one of the Stunticons hadn't even come to mind.

“Hey, is that...?” started the first.

The second nodded. “Look like you’re right. We got ourselves a Stunticon,” he smirked. The other frowned.

“What are we going to do with him?” Kneeling down to get a good look at the fallen ‘Con, the Autobot winced. It wasn’t a mech, it was a pile of scrap metal.

“Contact Prime for instructions... and Ratchet while you’re at it. He’s going to need a miracle worker with injuries like that...” he instructed the other ‘Bot.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Static.

Everywhere.

Black around him.

The feeling of hands on his frame, transporting him. Pain ran through his body. He moaned in agony, not knowing how he had managed to do so, and he vaguely heard a startled gasp. A hand ran over his neck, searching for something. He plunged again into nothingness.

*-*-*-*-*-*

“Of all the idiotic, stupid and pointless thing I’ve done, this one must be the worst.”

These were the first words Dead End heard upon awakening from emergency stasis. What had hit him again? He was pretty sure it wasn’t Motormaster, so it was probably Prime. Unless he took a shot fired by Megatron? Or perhaps he been beaten to slag by Vortex once again; the Combaticon refused to understand that he shouldn’t do so, no matter how... ‘persuasive’ Motormaster could be. But it was very unlikely, for the Stunticon vaguely remembered a battle. One thing was sure, though; whoever was speaking certainly wasn’t Hook, even if he could see the surgeon ranting like that at any time.

But the voice, the tone wasn’t the same. And there weren’t any comment from anyone, no cackles from Mixmaster, and no pokes from Scavenger, checking if you were dead and asking his ‘brothers’ if he could dismantle you. Such a lovely bunch... Anyway, he didn’t power up his optics immediately, preferring to listen some more.

The voice was still ranting. “Of course, Decepticons aren’t known for being helpful when one of their own goes down, but being part of a Gestalt, you would have thought at least one of those slaggers would have done something, no matter how stupid and reckless. The Aerialbots and the Protectobots have proven that often enough. But here, nothing. How ungrateful or stupid can those fragging sons of a glitch be? By the way, don’t bother trying to play unconscious; I know very well you’re online.”

Dead End just powered up his optics. The first thing he saw was the bright orange ceiling. He wondered briefly how the Autobots could live with so much orange around. The next thing he saw was a face frowning at him. Hum, a scowl, grey chevrons, blue optics,... Definitely the Autobot’s psychotic CMO. Hatchet or something like that. Ah, no, Ratchet, supplied his memory banks. Dead End just stared. He tried to move, only to find his movements restricted by something. He barely managed to hold back a sigh.

Of course, for all their stupidity, Autobots hadn’t sunk so low they wouldn’t restrain captive mechs, even if they were in need of extensive repairs. Wouldn’t want anyone violent turning on the medic, would they? But in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered the medic would certainly beat him like slag if he ever tried anything anyway. Now, wouldn’t that be stupid? Passing so much time saving a mech just to hit him like crazy afterward... Well, the world was hardly logical and was doomed anyway. And there were all kind of rumors about the Autobot’s CMO...

The mech didn’t waste time in introducing himself, as if he had no doubt the Decepticon knew who he was. He was right of course; even if many member of the Ark’s crew were nothing more than anonymous faces to the Decepticons, the medic and the High Command of the Autobots were well know. He was direct.

“Congratulations. You were about to meet Primus when they dragged you here. I saved your sorry aft, although I wonder why I even bothered.”

“I really wonder too,” muttered Dead End, voice charged with statics. Ah, it seemed his vocalizer had been slightly damaged too. Just perfect...

The white and red mech raised an optic ridge. “Hum, no ‘I will kill you, Autoscum!’ speech? It’s an improvement over the last Decepticons I had here,” he said, putting a wrench on a table near him and looking at the tools, searching for something. Had he been a more lively mech who enjoyed sarcasm, Dead End would have grinned. Instead, he just gazed at the medic in a bored way.

“Do you want me to start one?” he asked flatly.

“Just try and I disconnect your vocalizer,” threatened the medic, glaring at him. Dead End just... snorted. “Go ahead; it’s not like I will miss the one thing in my body structure which is still working for now.”

“Decepticons are ungrateful little slaggers,” mumbled the medic while taking a new wrench. The shackled Decepticon answered calmly.

“And Autobots are sensitive fools.” He had expected a shout or a punch, but instead, he heard a snicker.

“Nobody can be perfect,” answered lightly the red and white mech, the corners of his mouth pulling upward. “I suppose you have no idea just how serious your injuries were? Let me start a list...” Dead End’s thoughts drifted from here. He had no interest in what the Autobot’s medic was saying to him. So what if he was so damaged he could have passed for a piece of modern art? It wasn’t the Autobot’s business. His musings were stopped short when he received a slight blow to the head. Dead End yelped then started to... well, he wasn’t glaring, he didn’t feel like glaring at anyone, but at least stare nastily at the medic, or rather at the wrench he had just used to hit him.

Ratchet’s optics reflected his anger. “When I speak, I expect my patient to listen. Were you even listening to me?”

“No,” answered the Decepticon, looking bored. “Should I?” Perhaps, if he played his cards right, the medic would offline him? He hadn’t managed to make the Constructicons do that, but perhaps he would be lucky this time around? But Ratchet just paused in the repairs and looked at his reluctant patient thoughtfully.

“Well, aren’t you the truthful one. Most of the mechs I repair just nod and say ‘yes’ when I let them run their vocalizer. But do they actually listen? No, of course not.” The Stunticon would have shrugged, showing he didn’t care, except his body, appart from being restrained, wouldn’t even listen to his command. Great. He was stuck here with someone who was trying to save him. Again. Just like every times, no matter how slagged he was.

It was... really annoying, especially with the likes of Hook. Usually, the Constructicon had the processors to be proud of that and to brag about his ‘talent’ to everyone, not caring if he annoyed them. At least, he had the good sense to keep his bragging low around some people. To his credit, they were the most dangerous. Megatron would have shot him, Motormaster had tried to crush his head between his hands, and Vortex... well, anyone with a half working processor stayed as far away as possible from Vortex. Honestly, Dead End thought the only reason the Constructicons actually agreed to repair the crazy Combaticon was because Swindle promised them something in return.

But one of these days, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone made a small ‘mistake’ somewhere and ‘boom’, no more Bruticus. Now, if only that would happen to him... And perhaps it would if Hook ever learned Dead End had sometimes injuring himself on purpose. For all his arrogance and evil tendencies, Hook was... well, he was a medic, or something like that. The Constructicons were rather polyvalent. Every member of a Gestalt was, actually. You didn’t merge into one being without sequels. Trying to sort out memories and abilities was a pain in the aft but you tended to pick up some tricks, even unwillingly. But truly, he didn’t see the big deal about injured and dying mechs.

Why couldn’t medics understand they were doing something totally pointless? So, people were going to die if they didn’t do their best to help them. Big deal. Everyone was going to die one day or another. The whole universe would be destroyed someday. What was really the point in living? Obviously, nobody shared his convictions, and certainly not the gruffy mech who was now nodding to himself. Dead End watched as the medic took a welder and moved to stand beside his injured legs, optics scanning the twisted limbs, as if he wasn’t certain where to start.

“No telling me not move?” he asked blankly. Ratchet moved his welder in a warning way.

“If you want to make lame jokes, be my guest. But I’ll fry your vocalizer on purpose,” he said in a gruff voice. Dead End felt like smiling, except smiling was pointless.

“Because otherwise you’d do it by accident?” he asked.

The medic glared at him. “Want me to prove it to you?” he answered sharply.

Dead End choose wisely not to answer.

“Good boy,” praised the medic before starting to weld together some disjointed plate around his patient’s knees. They stayed silent for a moment, before Dead End finally couldn’t resist any longer. He had to know.

“Why are you doing that?” he asked. He wasn’t expecting Ratchet to truly understand the question. By ‘you’, he meant the medics in general, but he was sure the Autobot was thinking about himself. Well, as long as he had an answer, he wouldn’t complain. Ratchet didn’t look at him. He was far too occupied with his welding work. However, he didn’t stay silent. “I’m in a caring profession, kiddo; no matter who is injured or how bad it can be, I’ll always be there to patch everyone up the best I can.” Had he been able to, Dead End would have frowned. “Kiddo?” he repeated the unfamiliar word. “Human slang term for a sparkling,” was the medic’s simple answer. Dead End just stared at him. “I’m not a sparkling,” he said with conviction. Or at least as much as he could, which wasn’t much to begin with. He wasn’t a very caring or sensitive mech in the first place. Ratchet snorted as he finished welding the armor on the left leg. Ah, young ones and their endless habit of denying the truth...

“You’re barely two Earth years old. Come tell me that when you have five or six millennia under your belt.”

The Stunticon looked morosely at him. “If we’re still alive by that point.” And the Stunticon had his doubt about that. In fact, he was certain he wouldn’t be alive at that point. Between Megatron’s infamous temper, pointless fights with the Autobots and Motormaster’s caring personality, he just had to pick the way he wanted to die. Perhaps he could start a betting pool with Swindle? Not that he would profit from it, since he would be dead. But the Combaticon and a handful of others would certainly be amused. Ratchet paused in his work, somehow disturbed by the Decepticon’s words.

“Does the word ‘optimism’ ring any bells to you?” he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer. He gazed at the new weld marks, nodded to himself and put the welder back on a table. Glancing at his patient, he expected him to glare at him or something like that. But Dead End just nodded. “I know the word, and I find it stupid. ‘Optimism’ is a luxury for hope-filled fools who don’t know any better,” he said blankly.

“And extreme pessimism is reserved to older mechs who actually have something to complain about,” said crossly the CMO as he checked something in the internal components of the Stunticon’s right arm... or at least, what must have been a right arm before his collision with an unknown something. It was a real mess, circuits and torn and badly welded metal twisted in many way and fused together. The medic wondered idly what had caused the damages. Perhaps a flamethrower, or Megatron’s fusion cannon. As the Dinobots hadn’t been part of the battle, he ruled the flamethrowers out. So it had been Megatron. Firing on his own troups... What a leader.

Sure, it might have been an accident, but that didn’t change the outcome. He would have to replace a few things before the twisted thing could be considered in working order, and then there would be some cosmetic work to do. Some paint would certainly not be a bad idea... On the Stunticon’s torso too, while he was at it. He had passed a few hours working on the Decepticon’s inner components, trying to prevent him from offlining permanently. Now, he just had to finish with the shoulder and he could ask the Decepticon to be transferred to the brig. But with this mess, it was going to take a while. Well, at least, Dead End’s pain sensors were mercifully offline. And this time, he wouldn’t need help, not like he did when the Stunticon had been dragged into the ‘bay.

It had taken both him and First Aid to stabilize the Decepticon before he was able to dig into the armor and start to repair the damages. At that point, he hadn’t been sure the ‘Con would live.

“You know you’re lucky?” he asked quietly to the shackled mech. “Had you been hit lower, your main pump would have been destroyed and you would have won a one-way trip to the Well,” he explained as he saw Dead End’s blank look. Was he trying to cheer him up? Did he really think it would please him? Dead End would have none of that.

“I don’t care,” he simply said as flatly as possible. Oh, it was a lie; he did care, because he wasn’t going to die, but he doubted the medic would be overjoyed to hear that. The medic shook his head, snorting.

“Such strong words. It make you wonder if Snarl and you are related.” It was, after all, the Dinobot’s favorite phrase.

Dead End asked flatly. “Why? Should we be?” Ratchet looked at him as if he was crazy. “Primus, no! Five giant destructive lizards with the common sense of a rock are enough, thank you. No need to have more around, especially with the same violent tendencies.”

For all his stern look, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. Privately, Dead End had to agree with the statement; he didn’t fancy facing the Dinobots on the battle field. Or maybe he secretly did? They were so ruthless it was always by some kind of miracle when the Decepticons managed to return to the base alive. Miracles sucked. Was it too much to ask to be left alone and possibly dying, please? It made him think... would sticking around the Dinobots result in a quicker death? Primus – if such a being even existed in the first place – knew Motormaster was doing his best (or his worst, which was the same thing really), but he hadn't managed to offline any of them yet. Probably because he knew Megatron wouldn’t appreciate it and would deactivate him himself.

If that was the case, Dead End thought it was an unfounded fear. Since Starscream was still around despite his numerous treacheries, Motormaster had nothing to be worried about. Although destroying his own gestalt, one of the Decepticon army’s trump card, was a step above starting a rebellion in Dead End’s datapad. He tried to focus again on the medic; despite his personal opinions on life, Autobots and medical professions, he wasn’t willing to become more accustomed with the wrench to the head.

“We have enough of our own little sunshines around here without needing one more,” he said simply, a strange grim smile on his face. Had he been able to, Dead End would have raised an optic ridge. Strange. Were there fellow mechs aware of the absurdity of life among the Autobots? No, he thought after a moment. He doubted any of them could really see his point. The medic clearly couldn’t, and he wasn’t going to interrogate every Autobot he came across just to see if anyone was... well, like him. Or perhaps he could? But there would be no point; they were all doomed in the end. Sure, it would be nice to share his views with someone who would understand them, believe in them, but people were blind. Squishies, Decepticons, Autobots... they were the same. Blind fools. He... hated them. Or something like that, he couldn’t really tell. Emotions weren’t... They were so confusing, he just wasn't very good with them. But he knew he hated medics more than the rest. But he had to say it out loud to convince himself.

“You know, I think I hate you.” It didn’t sound so convincing, even for him, but that wasn’t the point. He felt somehow better after saying that.

Ratchet snorted. “Nothing new there; in case you forgot, Decepticons hate Autobots, and everybody hate medics,” he said, grinning. Almost every patients he had had said they hated him at least once. It had always amused him, seeing how those who said that were usually his strongest defenders. But somewhere in the back of his CPU, warning bells were ringing. Hearing a Decepticon say he hates you isn’t a big deal, but there was something in Dead End’s voice which was making Ratchet uncomfortable.

Dead End felt frustrated. He really didn’t understand. “Why do they hate you?”

“None of your business,” grumbled the medic. The Stunticon smirked.

“Do they hate you because you saved them?” The medic looked startled. Dead End felt like smiling. “Me, I hate you for that. I hate you, I hate Hook, I hate anyone who believe I will be grateful they ‘saved’ me or saved someone else. Life is not worth living; death will be welcome.”

The Autobot’s CMO stopped everything he was doing. For all that he had heard about the Stunticon, he had never truly thought he was serious when he spoke about life and death. “You would rather die?” he asked, his voice slightly shaking, with fear or fury, he didn’t know.

Dead End just sighed. Really, Autobots were so slow to understand. “What’s the point in living when you know you will die anyway? That the war is not going to end? Or perhaps it will, but none of us will be around to see the end. We’re walking dead mechs, refusing to see what we are.” Ratchet stared.

“And what are we?” he asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Nothing,” was the simple, short answer. Ratchet stared at him for a long while and Dead End frowned. There was something in the medic’s optics he hadn’t seen before.

“You’re... far too young to think about things like that,” said Ratchet finally, turning his head away. Truthfully, he had wanted to shout, 'Don't think like that! Life is precious and must be protected and cherished!' Cliché, yes, but it would have hopefully made the Decepticon react. But deep down, he knew nothing he said would reach the enemy mech. They didn’t speak again. There was no point in doing so, and even if the silence was uneasy, it was still safer than speaking.

Much later, after he had ended his shift and left the Medbay in First Aid’s hands and long after the Twins had escorted the newly repaired Dead End to the brig, the medic was staring at a half-full cube of Energon, lost in his thoughts. Or at least he would have been had Jazz not come to him as soon as he had spotted him.

The saboteur’s cheery demeanor was grating on his processors for some reason. Perhaps it was the contrast between the depressing ‘Con and the happy-go-lucky ‘Bot.

“So, Doc, how is our guest?” Ratchet barely glanced at him. “He’s really messed up,” he said quietly.

“In the state he was in when Ironhide and Bluestreak found him, that’s a given,” commented the saboteur.

“Tell me about it. I’ve seen jiggsaw puzzles which are easier to solve than putting his sorry chassis back together. No, I meant that mentally, he’s a mess,” said the medic crossly. Jazz cracked a smile. “Now, that’s a surprise. Seriously, every single ‘Con has issues,” pointed out the saboteur. “One would think it’s a requirement to be part of their army. Mind you, we’re not so different if you forget the whole ‘enslaving alien species’ and ‘destroy everything’ parts.”

Ratchet shook his head. “Yeah, but someone so young... It doesn’t feel right.” Jazz gave him a questioning look, and the CMO sighed. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say. He’s hardly a sparkling, but next to me, Prime, Ironhide, you...” The saboteur laughed a little, but it seemed rather forced. “I’m not that old, Doc.”

The medic glared at him half-heartily. “What I mean to say is we have the right to indulge in self-pity and gloom. We’ve seen enough horrors since the beginning of the war. But that Stunticon? He has never truly lived, and he’s already expecting his life to end. In fact, he somehow eagerly expect it. Primus, next to him, I think Gears, Huffer and Snarl are rays of sunshine,” finished the CMO wearily.

Jazz tilted his head. “That bad, eh?” he asked softly. “You just have no idea,” answered Ratchet, sighing once again. “This is the first time I think it would have been kinder to actually do as he asked and offlined him for good.” He paused for a few seconds, vaguely acknowledging Jazz’s startled look. “He’s so... hopeless it hurts to just speak with him,” he finished softly.

The medic powered down his optics. Even now, he still thought about the ‘conversation’ he had with the prisoner/patient/whatever he was. It had left him... bitter. For once in his long life, he had felt there was nothing he could do. Sure, he had felt something similar before when he had been faced with mortally wounded patients, but it wasn’t the same thing. He could repair bodies, but minds... Minds were out of his reach. Dead End wasn’t the first one he saw with such a damaged mind, far from it. The war had begun so long ago. Back then, he had seen them, the youngsters with hope-filled optics and full of joy and eagerness to fight against the Decepticons. Youngsters who thought they could take on the whole army and win, the ones who laughed loudly, joked around and looked sheepish when an officer came to complain about the noise.

Ratchet had seen them start fighting seriously, he had seen some of them die on the battlefield and later in the Medbay because it was too late. He had seen them dying in the hallways because they had been deemed doomed by the people in charge of triage. Oh, how he hated that... Those that survived... he had seen their optics becoming harder, their faces becoming blank, he had seen the jokes die on their lips. He had seem them turn and look over their shoulder, searching for someone who was no longer there. He had heard the shouts and cheers becoming whispers and painful, awkward silences. They were dying in front of him, not physically, but mentally. They were coming apart and he couldn’t fix them, couldn’t fix their innocence and their destroyed happiness. And not only on the Autobots’ side; even among the Decepticons, he had recognized the signs.

War spared no one.

On the Ark, he never had to worry about that. By some miracle (or Primus’ granted mercy), Bluestreak was holding himself together, and the other youngsters on board... Well, they had been created as adults, already in a time of war. They had never seen peace before and they had never seen the most horrible, violent parts of the conflict. They ignored the hopelessness some of the other, older mechs felt. Probably because they were very good at hiding it when the youngsters were around. But for how long exactly?

The Dinobots, the Aerialbots... innocence only lasted so long. Dead End... The Stunticon who had looked at him with dead optics... Ratchet suspected Dead End was like a physical representation of those feelings; that no one would ever be the same, that nothing would ever be like it was before, that everything was heading towards a gigantic meltdown that was going to destroy every single one of them. A dead end for everyone. The name was so fitting...

Ratchet swallowed a large mouthful of energon, leaving his cube almost empty. Primus, he was going to need a lot more... Perhaps he would ask for some of Perceptor and Wheeljack’s special brew; he needed something strong right now... And he probably wasn’t the only one.

“Got to see Prime,” he thought. “Take one or two days off. Can’t really remember the last time I did. Got to go outside, collect myself...” And if his wish wasn’t granted, perhaps he would take a break tomorrow anyway and spend the day with the Dinobots. They hadn’t seemed very happy recently, although that wasn’t a rare occurrence. Perhaps a game or something would cheer them up? That would be... relaxing for once.

He hadn’t noticed Jazz had been staring at him this whole time, reading the emotions on his face like an ‘open book’, as the humans said. Jazz didn’t like what he was seeing, but refrained himself from speaking. He doubted Ratchet would appreciate being disturbed. Quietly, Jazz finished his cube before rising from his seat.

“Be happy; Prime has contacted Megatron for a prisoner exchange. You’ll not have to deal with him for much longer,” he said before leaving. Jazz’s shift did not start for another joor, but he didn’t fancy staying near Ratchet when he was like that. He thought about asking the Twins to be on their best behavior for a few days. Or perhaps not; he doubted they could cheer Ratchet up with their antics, but at least they would distract him...

Ratchet didn’t say anything in response. He was staring once again at his cube of energon, feeling strangely hollow.

**End**


End file.
